by Stephanie

It is raining and I am pleased.

There is something so inviting about a rainy day. Much like a sunny day invites picnics and long walks and exploration of the external, a rainy day invites books and stationery and exploration of the internal.

There is no better setting for reading than a comfortable seat and a window open on a world blurred by falling rain. This fact gives me great hope for my future studies, as the most common reaction to my statement “I’m moving to London,” is “I hope you like rain.” I do, thank you. I like the sounds it makes, and the smell of it, and the way it feels on my skin and in my hair. I like that it allows for guilt-free hours of physical inactivity and encourages the voracious quest for erudition.

There may be better settings for writing, in fact it may be true that there is no bad setting for writing, but the rain dropping past my window is an undeniable muse. My gaze is held there, watching uncountable drops speed by, amused that their speed should cause my torpor. Everything slows when it rains. My thoughts are not rushed. My mind is calm. And when I write, it is not forced.

If asked, I could not say which are better, rainy days or sunny. But the beautiful thing is we are not made to choose. We wake and find either one or the other and are allowed to enjoy each as we will. Today I will read. I will write. I will enjoy a warm cup of coffee as I sit in the cool breeze of an almost-autumn day.